


The Leyendecker Look

by Space_and_Thyme



Series: You Are My Lucky Star [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 1936, Art School, Gen, Illustration, Jealous Steve Rogers, Life modeling, Nude Modeling, Pre-Relationship, Pre-War, art class, not yet a couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-13 20:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16025414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_and_Thyme/pseuds/Space_and_Thyme
Summary: When Steve wakes up later than normal, it's a dash to get to his morning life drawing class in time. And today they have a new model.In which Bucky takes a job as a life model for Steve's class, to make a little extra money before winter, and is a hit with the students.





	The Leyendecker Look

_Friday, November 20 th, 1936._

 

Steve was already behind schedule before he’d had the chance to pull himself out of bed.

 

His class was meant to start at 8 am – which normally wouldn’t be too much to ask for, despite the fact that the campus was in Manhattan. In order to get to class on time, Steve had to be up no later than six, which was _approximately_ the time at which Bucky tended to leave their cramped little apartment for his day shift at the docks. Quite usually, Bucky’s larger form pulling itself out of the small single bed, where he wedged himself between the wall and Steve, would wake him. They’d be up together no later than 5:30, able to quickly share a pot of burned coffee, and be out the door together, until they turned their separate ways at the end of the street – one heading for work, the other heading for his Friday life drawing class in Manhattan.

 

Steve had never realized, at least up until that day, just how much he counted on Bucky’s routine to keep his own clicking along tickety-boo. It was a little embarrassing in retrospect, but at least Steve’s early start to Friday mornings meant that he and Bucky got those few moments spent in that bleary-eyed haze where they moved around each other like celestial bodies – and if Steve was being honest, he knew that in that metaphor he was the Earth orbiting Bucky’s Sun. But, the early morning start also meant that his day was concluded faster than the rest of the week, and that gave Steve a chance to work on his homework and pull a little more weight around their home. On Fridays, Steve liked to try and scrape together dinner for Bucky – so his friend had a hot meal of some sort waiting for him when he walked in the door – especially now that winter was rapidly approaching. Even if all he could manage was a Poor Man’s Meal of cubed potato and chopped onion fried with slices of hot dog. He figured it was the least he could do for his best friend, after all… Bucky had moved in the day after Sarah Roger’s funeral and had all but become like his partner – cooking and cleaning up after Steve, though he kept telling Bucky he was capable of it himself. But, Bucky seemed to enjoy the easy domesticity enough, humming as he cooked or tidied up the frankly embarrassing mountains of papers that Steve was constantly producing for his school work. Still though, as exhausted as he was by the end of Friday night, Steve enjoyed his Fridays, as it allowed him to focus on Bucky just a little more.

 

Today, however, was not going according to that tried and true plan.

 

See, the thing was… Bucky hadn’t come home the night before – oh, he’d been alright, and he’d had the presence of mind to _‘borrow’_ the telephone in the clerk’s office at the warehouse, which he used to call their landlord who in turn came up to tell Steve that Bucky had been asked to pull a double and thus work the graveyard shift. Steve understood completely, and though he missed having Bucky at home the night before, he’d been more than able to look after himself.

 

He _had_ worried about Bucky though – working from seven in the morning to seven in the morning again, despite the maybe decent pay that would make it into his wage packet this week, was tough. If he was lucky, Bucky would have had an hour or two to himself between shifts – time enough to grab yet another stale cup of coffee and maybe a dry piece of bread – just enough to keep him going through the second half of his painfully long work day. By the time he’d stumble home sometime around 8 am, Bucky was going to be exhausted enough, and bodily sore, to sleep through all of Friday and part of Saturday as well. And, when he awoke, he was going to be _ravenous_ , so while Steve was halfway concentrated on gathering up his supplies and heading to class, he was also concerned about what food they had in the apartment – whatever was in the pantry, and the little that was in the ice box… it probably wouldn’t be enough for both of them, and he really didn’t want Bucky to once again disregard his own gnawing hunger so that Steve was fed.

 

But with Bucky not coming home the night before, it meant that he wasn’t tucked into the bed, warm, at Steve’s side. His morning ritual of dragging himself out of the bed and hopping over the blanket chest that was positioned at the end, wasn’t present to wake Steve at the regularly allotted time.

 

Steve didn’t wake up until seven, a good hour and a half late.

 

Scattered and frazzled, Steve quickly dressed and shoved his pad of newsprint paper and the canvas roll he used to house his conté pencils and sticks in, into his messenger bag, and grabbed his wallet and keys as he barreled out the door. He barely remembered to lock the apartment behind himself – but it wasn’t as though they had anything worth the trouble of stealing - and Bucky would be home from work in an hour or so, so in the end it wouldn’t truly have made much difference whether the door was locked or not.

 

It was an hour’s ride on the train from Red Hook to Manhattan – and from the train station it was a mad dash of multiple city blocks to make it to the campus. He had to hold off on his pace, knowing that if he pushed too hard he would fall into an asthma attack – and without Bucky there to help coach him through it, he didn’t know how he’d get through. And, if it wasn’t an issue of his asthma, Steve knew that if he pushed too hard to make it to class, he would start to have palpitations, and his body would be weak and exhausted by the time he made it to the class. It would likely result in him being so lethargic that he wouldn’t be able to draw the model, and would render the day a wasted effort. And, since Bucky was paying for his tuition, he couldn’t bring himself to waste _any_ day.

 

Blessedly, by the time he reached the classroom he was only thirty minutes late for the start. With the time it generally took for the class to settle in, and the model to ready themselves for three hours of posing, class rarely actually began at eight. Steve was likely only fifteen or so minutes behind the others – still plenty of time to settle himself and produce some good work.

 

He eased the door of the studio open, and crept inside as quietly as he could. The life drawing studio itself was large, with eighteen foot tall ceilings – though the ceilings above that were unfinished and crisscrossed with pipes and duct work. The room had a concrete floor which had been painted grey to seal it – it was completely stained by ink, oil paints, and any other number of art materials after years of use, giving it a strangely mottled appearance. The studio contained only what was absolutely necessary, and the architecture gave off a strongly industrial feeling directly at odds with the use of the space. The room was dark, with no overhead lights except for those directly over the main entrance. Instead the only light in the main body of the massive room came from the large industrial standing lamps – usually used in a photography studio- which could be wheeled around and aimed at the model positioned on the two foot tall, sixteen foot square, stage in the middle of the room. Beyond the model stand, there was little else in the room, save for the professor’s desk in the far corner and thirty Art Donkeys (art benches designed to hold your board and drawing pad at an angle while you sit straddled over the bench, or can be turned on end to use while standing, much like a podium) with 30 matching wooden boards on several shelves. There was an articulated and mounted human skeleton in one dark corner, and several tall standing pantries that held spare supplies otherwise positioned around the space.

 

When he crept in, Steve glanced and found an empty Donkey already in the setup – wasting no more time, he scurried forward and sat himself quickly down. He huffed a little, embarrassed that he was interrupting – and suddenly belatedly remembered his professor telling them earlier in the week that the model for today was a new recruit – one who had never modeled (for students or otherwise) before. Cursing himself under his breath for probably making the already nervous model further uncomfortable, Steve glanced up and noted in a flash of a look at the model stand that the new addition to the roster was a young man of a muscular build, with olive-toned skin. Steve only saw a hint of him, having immediately turned to open his newsprint pad and unroll the canvas carrying case his drawing implements were housed within.

 

And then he froze, as what he’d glimpsed in that brief glimmer, suddenly registered in his mind.

 

There, sitting on a stool on the white painted model stand surrounded by thirty illustration students, and as naked as the day god made him, was Bucky Barnes.

 

As his cerulean eyes went wide with shock, Steve’s mouth ran dry. It wasn’t the surprise of seeing his friend completely buck naked, as he’d seen it plenty of other times when Bucky was kind enough to pose for him (or the numerous times that Steve had walked into their bedroom or small bathroom without knocking), but rather the shock of seeing him nude modelling _here_ in the life drawing studio of his college. Bucky, to his credit, remained completely neutral faced as he sat posed, but the moment he saw Steve – and Steve’s eyes connected with his – his grey irises sparkled with mirth and happiness. Steve felt a slight warmth spread through his face and into the tips of his ears, and he knew he was blushing.  

 

The last Donkey left had been the one that faced the model-stand directly in line with the way Bucky had positioned himself for the first thirty minute pose. Sitting here, low to the floor and with his friend on an elevation two feet higher, Steve found himself at a strange angle. He’d had to look up at Bucky for years – since Bucky suddenly gained eight inches on him in the summers of ’29 and ’30 – but this was _different._ What with the way that either Bucky had oriented himself, or had been nudged into position by the professor, he sat on the stool and gazed down, keeping his eyes on the floor somewhere behind Steve. The perspective that the combined elements gave, struck Steve as he openly stared at Bucky – at least that look he could brush aside as his studying of the model’s form before he started his work. Bucky looked like a King, or a God, sitting on a throne. Benevolent, but strong: the blue shadow of his whisker stubble beginning to show on curve of his jaw and his slightly tousled dark curls gave him an air of something wild and feral – a deity of the untamed and distant lands without name.

 

The flush of pink grew a little more in Steve’s cheeks as he realized just what he’d been thinking of – all he was meant to do was draw the day’s model. He wasn’t supposed to be spinning grand narratives based on said model – _especially_ not when it was his childhood best friend.

 

Especially not when his childhood best friend was sitting stark naked before him – well, perhaps in the privacy of their tiny apartment in Red Hook he would allow himself such indulgences into the realm of fantasy, but not here. Not surrounded by his classmates and – _oh._

 

A flash of jealousy flared and bloomed in his chest as the reality of the situation finally dawned upon Steve.  Bucky, _his_ Bucky (even if he could never bring himself to tell the man how he felt), was here posing for Steve’s class, devoid of all of his kit and utterly naked. He was here, with every intimate inch of his sun-kissed skin on display for thirty-one strangers, and Steve.

 

It wasn’t fair – and Steve knew he was being ridiculous, but it wasn’t _fair_ – that the others in his illustration class should be so bestowed with this gift – because Bucky Barnes _was_ a gift in every way. One that he’d wanted to keep for _only_ himself.

 

Gritting his teeth together, Steve pushed all the thoughts swirling in his head aside. He just needed to work – to block everyone else out and focus solely upon Bucky and his artwork, as though he was in their living room or bedroom, and not in the strangely industrial studio that was both too dark and too warmly lit all at once. As though the intimate nature of this moment was not shared with others, but belonged to only himself and Bucky the way he’d only ever wanted it to be.

 

With a small, tried and tested, piece of broken _Conté_ _à_ _Paris_ , Steve sketched out Bucky’s form and began to lay in the areas of shadow, leaving the blank colour of the newsprint for the areas where the light fell and illuminated him.

 

Fifteen minutes passed by in what felt like a speedy eternity. Steve’s finger tips were covered in conté from the soft and too smooth nature of the newsprint, but he had a figure that he was relatively proud of. As he looked up from the page, he watched as Bucky lifted himself from the stool and set it aside before he moved a little more into the middle of the model stand. There, he struck a perfect contrapposto pose, and a slight gasp seemed to run through a portion of the gathered students – Steve was unable to stop the same little sound of awe from leaving his lips.

 

The way the light of the photographers’ lamps were hitting Bucky and mingling with the lingering darkness of the studio, exaggerated the planes of his muscles under his skin and the gentle curves of his posed body. The shadows clung to him, lingering in soft blue-toned greys and desaturated greens and lavenders as they settled everywhere that was not directly facing the lamps. Where the light shone upon him, his figure illuminated in a saturated blaze of warm yellows and oranges that shone from the soft olive-tone of his skin. His hair, even in shadow, shone a little more red than Steve had ever seen, and where the light touched the curls it gleamed like spun gold and amber flame.

 

In this studio, in this pose, in this light that would be harsh to most, Bucky was _beautiful_ – shining, and radiant like the sun. He was Apollo, he was Helios - in the eyes of Steve Rogers.

 

“This will be an hour’s pose,” Professor McLaughlin drawled easily, before pausing. “That is, if you’re up to it, James?”

 

Bucky remained perfectly still, though he glanced down towards the middle-aged man who taught the class.  “Of course.” He looked up and away again, and his grey eyes caught the warm light and seemed to glimmer.

 

“Being that it’s an hour long, those of you who brought your oils with you are free to paint the figure rather than drawing him. Whether you are drawing or painting, I’ll be looking to see that you’re capturing the subtleties of the light and shadow play.”

 

Looking at the gleaming form of Bucky before him, radiant like he was made from sunlight and gold, Steve wished more than ever that he’d had the presence of mind to pack his kit of oil paints into his pack the night before. He wished he could capture the saturation contrast in the dull shadows and the bright lights, but the paints were sitting at home, on the small three-legged table beside the door to their shared bedroom. He would have to be content with another black and white tonal study, while he willed the memory of this vision to be burned into his memory. He desperately wanted to paint this image later, and while he knew Bucky would pose for him without question, there was no way that Steve could achieve this perfect lighting in their apartment.

 

Ten feet away, partway around the circle of the Donkeys, Steve could hear the murmur of Elizabeth and Myrtle’s voices as they spoke quietly with one another. The two seemed to be fast friends, having only met at the beginning of their first year in college but having remained tight since. They were two of six girls that were in Steve’s class (a ridiculously low number, if you asked Steve), and usually a little shy. Not today, however.

 

“Look at him…” Elizabeth sighed dreamily, barely above a whisper as she paused from drawing to simply stand and gaze at Bucky for a moment. “He’s gorgeous…” the air of infatuation lingered in her voice as she gazed with softened eyes at the figure on the model stand.

 

Something in Steve gnashed its sharpened fangs the moment he heard the besotted tone in her words. He wanted to bare his teeth, he wanted to tell Elizabeth to find another poor sod to focus her attentions on, because Bucky was off limits.

 

Except that Bucky was _not_ off limits, not once he was finished modelling for the day. There was nothing stopping the girls from seeking his attention – certainly not Steve’s tight-chested jealousy. Steve finally tore his eyes from his drawing, and glanced between Elizabeth and Bucky on the model stand, wondering if his friend could hear the smitten nature of the girl’s words – if he could even hear Elizabeth. Being that where he stood on the stand was only ten feet from the front of Elizabeth’s Donkey, Steve knew that Bucky _must_ have been able to hear her, though he made zero outward show of it. But, Bucky had always been professional when he was modelling for Steve – he wouldn’t break his concentrated expression just to react to the quiet flattery of the girl.

 

Myrtle hummed softly as she stood beside Elizabeth, and raked her eyes over Bucky’s face. Something seemed to suddenly click in her mind, and she gasped a tiny little inhale in delight. “He’s got the Leyendecker look!” she breathed as her wide eyes sparkled with delight. Myrtle glanced back towards Elizabeth, and smiled encouragingly as she nudged her with her elbow, clearly implying something unspoken between the two of them.

 

“He does! Oh, he really _is_ beautiful…” Elizabeth bit her lip softly as she studied Bucky’s face – irises dancing over the peaks of his cheekbones and along the square line of his jaw, down to the corded muscle in his neck and smoothing over the raised ridges of his clavicle, before dancing back up to his face and gliding over the perfect pink pout of his Cupid's bow lips.

 

Bucky must have felt the weight of her gaze on him. He suddenly broke his locked gaze off of the spot on the wall across from him, and slid his icy-pale gaze to the two girls – catching Elizabeth staring dreamily at him. A faint smile tugged at his pink lips as he watched the girl’s eyes widen in embarrassment at being caught by him – the cerise flush blooming on her cheeks started to match her pale skin to the fiery shade of her hair.

 

And the spell was cast.

 

Steve watched the barely noticeable interaction – the lock of Bucky’s eyes upon Elizabeth, and the slight and smug smile on his friend’s lips. Sighing under his breath, Steve’s shoulders slouched slightly as worked on the shading in his drawing – doing everything he could to keep his mind off of what he’d just seen spark to life before his eyes.

 

Elizabeth would be the lucky girl in Bucky’s arms after today, it was inescapable.

 

The minutes passed as Steve worked on the drawing – sketching out in the barest, minimalist, lines for the form of his friend. The strong line of his broad shoulders, his strong arms, the dense muscle ridge of his thick but lean waist, the narrow crest of his hips, his sturdy thighs, and the weight of the organ hanging between them. Perhaps if it had been anyone other than Bucky standing there as the perfect Adonis on the model stand, Steve would have reduced the level of rendering that he put into the drawing. But, it _wasn’t_ another model, and this was the closest to telling Bucky that he could ever come. So Steve drew, and drew, and laid out his love for Bucky on the paper as he always did. As he’d done for years already.

 

As the hour ticked to a close, Steve’s attention was wavering. He was exhausted, despite sleeping late – unwilling to admit that he slept better when Bucky’s warmth was weighing down the mattress at his side – and his mind was still spinning.

 

He wanted to capture the image of Bucky like this – this lighting, this pure colour radiating from him like he was the sun. He wanted to lose himself in the effort of capturing this beauty. He also wanted to forget it – to leave after this pose ended, so that he wouldn’t be present for the inevitable meeting of Elizabeth and Bucky.

 

Steve _loved_ having Bucky here – having the ability to see Bucky fitted into the studio that he spent every week in, it was a wonderful blend of his two worlds. But, it hurt all the same. As much as he hated himself for being jealous, he couldn’t help it. The controlling aspect of his personality wanted to keep Bucky only for himself.

 

“And… that’s time!” Professor McLaughlin broke the weighted silence of the room. “We’re going to take a break– feel free to go to the canteen and have a cup of coffee, we’ll reconvene in thirty minutes.” He turned to the model stand, and jolted slightly when he met Bucky’s icy-pale eyes already on him. “You too, James.”

 

Bucky nodded, and finally moved out of the contrapposto pose. He locked his hands together above his head, and arched his back causing his whole body to bow as he stretched his tense muscles.

 

It wasn’t long before a large majority of the class had departed the studio room, setting off for coffee and whatever food they could pick up in the canteen. Bucky picked up his trousers and pull them on, buckling his belt again, though he’d forgone his boxers when he put them on. He’d be modelling, nude, again in thirty minutes anyway. He fished his pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket, followed by the simple, chrome, Ronson cigarette lighter. His intention was to step out of the back door of the studio, into the secondary hallway, to have a quick smoke.

 

He didn’t get very far however, as Elizabeth and Myrtle sidled up in front of him – blocking his path towards the door. His dark brows shot up as he smiled softly – clearly surprised but still easy going. The girl with whom he’d made eye contact while he was on the stand, she was blushing and glancing down and away at the floor, a shy smile on her lips. In her hand was a Dixie cup full of cheap coffee diluted by condensed milk. Worrying her lip, she glanced up at his face briefly, and held out the coffee for him.

 

“I got you a coffee…” If possible, the flush on Elizabeth’s cheeks grew a little more rosey.

 

 Bucky quirked a brow slightly, his eyes flickering from one girl, to the other. When Myrtle nodded her brunette head, he smiled, put his cigarettes and lighter away, and took the coffee from Elizabeth.  He couldn’t help it- the desire to tease her welling up in his chest as she continued to shy look at the floor. “Thank you, darlin’” he all but drawled in that low and fluidly warm tone of his. “But ya gotta look up at me and not the floor if ya wanna talk to me, doll.”

 

Myrtle immediately laughed brilliantly as Bucky teased her smitten best friend. Elizabeth looked up quickly, forcing herself to meet his eyes – unable to stop herself from quickly dragging her gaze up over his broad chest.

 

Bucky smirked in his knowing way as he lifted his brows and widened his grey eyes playfully and took a mouthful of the coffee the girl had given to him. It was horrible – honestly the worst coffee he’d had in a long time – half because it was poorly brewed, and half because he _hated_ white coffee. He drank it black at home – black and brewed like tar. Still, it was a nice gesture. He swallowed it with only a minute hint of disgust tightening the feline corners of his smirk.

 

“I’m Elizabeth – you can call me Lizzie.” She blurted out, quickly, as she tucked her red hair back behind her ear.

 

Behind Bucky, Steve sighed softly. So it was beginning. He shook his head as he carefully turned the drawn-on page out of the way, opening another clean sheet for what would come after the break.

 

Bucky grinned at the girl, “Hi Lizzie, I’m James.” He shifted the coffee cup into his left hand, and held his right out for her.

 

 _James._ He’d introduced himself as _James_.

 

Bucky never did that, not when it came to talking to women.

 

Lizzie reached out and tentatively took his hand and shook it in meeting. “It’s lovely to meet you, James.” She was smiling, but the nervousness was palpable.

 

Myrtle looked between the two of them and shook her head, deciding to help her timid – or possibly terrified – friend with her conversation with the attractive, young, model. “Professor McLaughlin mentioned that you’re Steven’s roommate?”

 

Two things happened in that moment: Bucky turned his attention towards Myrtle as he cocked his head with a good-natured smile, and he blindly reached out behind himself, feeling a familiar presence nearby. Without much effort, his hand caught Steve’s shirtsleeve where it covered his shoulder; he pulled him towards himself.

 

“That I am, ma’am.” Bucky grinned in that predatory way as Steve gasped slightly and stumbled forward, broken out of his own self-appointed task. When Steve was at his side, Bucky threw his arm around Steve’s neck, resting his elbow lightly on his shoulder as he pulled the smaller man against the warmth of his naked torso.

 

Steve snorted as he careened into Bucky’s larger, denser, form. His shoulders came up automatically with unease and humiliation at being that easily manhandled in front of his classmates – but as the familiar warm weight of Bucky’s arm on his shoulders settled over him, the tension started to bleed out of him. He still wasn’t exactly enthused to be here with _Lizzie_ in front of him, but at least he felt a little calmer about the situation.

 

Bucky was still talking to the girls, but Steve wasn’t listening. His mind was adrift, lost, as he trembled a little – half from pent-up jealousy, and half from the chill of the life drawing studio. Being that it was November, and the studio was not overly well heated, and Steve had very little fat on his petite frame, he was cold to the touch.

 

Bucky shuddered and broke his conversation with Lizzie and Myrtle the moment Steve’s chilled clothing pressed in against his bare skin. Gasping, he looked down at his friend with mild horror. “Jesus, Stevie!” he inhaled. “You’re like _ice!_ ”

 

Steve had the presence of mind to look guilty as she shrugged his shoulders a little, even under the weight of Bucky’s arm. “Sorry, it’s cold in here…”

 

Completely absent now of the previous conversation, Bucky shook his head and rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Why didn’t ya put my cardigan on? I mean its _right there_ in front of ya on the side of the stand!” it seemed like the most obvious answer in the world to Steve’s discomfort at the temperature of the studio.

 

Steve held very still, waiting to see if Bucky realized the mistake of his words himself. When he got nothing more than a judgmental gaze from those grey eyes that he loved, Steve sighed. “Buck… I can’t just _get up and put on the **model’s** sweater_.” It seemed like common sense to him – he couldn’t just get up and put a _stranger’s_ clothing on because he happened to be freezing in the room. Besides… with the burning flames of his jealousy, Steve hadn’t really noticed the cold up until that point.

 

“Oh for –“ Bucky set the Dixie cup of bad coffee aside, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose quickly. “Stevie! Your prof _knows_ who I am to you!” He let go of his grip on Steve, and shook him off, immediately turning on his bare heel and stalking back the ten feet to the model stand. From his remaining discarded clothing, he picked up cream coloured cable-knit wool cardigan that Winnifred Barnes had knit for her son the previous Christmas, and immediately returned to Steve’s side. Without taking no for an answer, Bucky grabbed Steve and began to forcibly dress him in his own cardigan – grabbing his wrists and putting his arms into the sleeves in a way reminiscent of dressing a struggling toddler.

 

“Stubborn Scrub, you are!” Bucky grumbled as he finished buttoning the cardigan over Steve’s clothing. “Gonna catch your death if you ain’t careful – and _then_ where’ll I be, huh?” For all the fire in the words chosen, Bucky’s voice was not condemnatory, only tired. Tired of the same argument, tired after 24 hours working at the docks, tired after posing in contrapposto for an hour straight. Just _tired_.

 

Lizzie and Myrtle hazarded a glance towards each other, in disbelief over the way _James’_ entire demeanour and dynamic shifted the moment Steve was, for lack of a better term, snuggled into his side. The thought that passed between the two women was unvoiced, but it didn’t _need_ to be spoken.

 

Steve was blushing, completely humiliated as Bucky forced him into his cardigan. But, he couldn’t deny that he was glad for the sweater – glad for Bucky. Winnifred had knit the cardigan so that it was already large on Bucky’s frame – the extra space allowing more body heat to be trapped, thereby insulting her son with a layer of warm air around his body. On Steve… the cardigan was _massive._ It draped off his shoulders in bundles of knitted wool, the sleeves hung passed his hands, and the hem came to his upper middle thighs. He was practically swimming in Bucky’s cardigan. It didn’t help that the traces of Bucky’s subtle cologne still lingered in the wool and, with the heat of Steve’s body, lightly wafted back towards Steve, enveloping him in the essence of his friend. Without pause, he buried his face in the shawl collar of the cardigan, breathing Bucky’s cologne in deeply as he began to warm up. He barely noticed Bucky’s arm slide back around his shoulders, until he found himself once again tucked into his friend’s warm side. This time he didn’t jolt, didn’t react with humiliation – the blend of spicy and sharp fragrance laid over the heady base of chicory smoothed over his frazzled nerves and made him feel at home.

 

“Want the rest of my coffee?” the whiskey-golden voice rumbled near his ear, as Steve slipped his arm around Bucky’s waist.

 

“Ew, god no.” Steve immediately shook his head, and Bucky snorted in laughter.

 

“Just thought I’d ask.”

 

“No, ya thought ya’d pawn that weak excuse for coffee off on me.”

 

“Hey! Lizzie was _very_ kind in bringing me that.” Bucky nudged him playfully.

 

Steve rolled his eyes, “Yeah…” he sighed soft.

 

Myrtle was watching them closely – and she highly suspected that there was more to them than met the eye.  But, she worried her lip as she glanced sidelong at her own friend – the friend who was now put out and still, obviously, smitten. Myrtle had to act.

 

“What’re you boys doin’ tonight?” she drawled out with a grin as she set her hands on her hips.

 

Bucky quirked his brow a little. He _really_ wanted a night in, just to spend with his Stevie, and to catch up on the frankly _massive_ amount of sleep that he had missed in the last thirty hours. But, he could see where this was going… _and_ if Myrtle was willing to bring Steve in on the plan as well… “Depends what ya had in mind, doll.” He grinned, baring his teeth, as he met Myrtle’s gaze with unwavering attention. There was a slight battle here, and he knew it.

 

Myrtle shrugged easily, matching Bucky’s feline smile inch for inch. “I thought the four of us could go to that new Clark Gable picture; it’s opening night, after all. And I thought maybe afterwards we could hit the dance hall. Right, Lizzie?” Myrtle gave her friend a pointed look – breaking the other young woman out of her reverie.

 

Lizzie blushed embarrassed, “Sure, if the boys are game…” She swallowed tightly around the lump in her throat, and suddenly Steve felt for the girl. She was just as embarrassed as he was in these situations – and, just like him, she was completely infatuated with Bucky Barnes.

 

Bucky glanced down at Steve, waiting to hear what he thought of the idea. Steve shrugged his shoulders gently, with a tired and slightly sad little smile. “Go ahead, Buck…”

 

Bucky watched him for a moment – studying Steve and noting the unconscious language of his body, his expression, and the defeated tone in his voice. After that moment, he nodded and turned his attention back to the waiting girls. He cocked his head to the side and shrugged his shoulders lightly. “I hate ta be a Crumb, girls, but I just worked 24 straight. I’d just be gummin’ the works like this.” He was smiling warmly, and his voice was soothing. It was impossible not to fall for that charm. “Tell ya what, if ya still wanna catch that picture, we can do it _next_ Friday.”

 

Lizzie was blushing, but she nodded her head. “That’d be swell.”

 

The last half of the three hour class passed by without incident – Steve returned to his Donkey, and Bucky returned to the model stand, where he removed his trousers again, and fell into the poses that Professor McLaughlin had run through with him before class started that morning. Steve was able to complete a few more images of Bucky, of which he was rather proud.

 

When the class ended, and the students had thanked Bucky for modelling for them (which the man was _definitely_ not expecting, and had ended up laughing awkwardly at out of sheer embarrassment), Steve packed up his art supplies and stood back, waiting for Bucky.

 

Bucky grabbed his clothing and disappeared into the small storage cupboard that the school used as a dressing room for their life models. When he re-emerged, he was wearing a medium blue chambray work shirt tucked into his dark brown “oxford bags” trousers, which were held up by a pair of medium brown and black suspenders looped over his shoulders. His worn old oxfords were a medium, russet, coloured leather with slightly scuffed heels. He carded his fingers back through his dark curls before he pulled his taupe herring bone tweed flat cap on over them.

 

It was a cold morning, but Bucky had no jacket. The only outerwear that he had brought with him the day before to his day shift (which in turn had turned into multiple shifts _and_ a trip to the Manhattan based campus) was the cream coloured knit cardigan that Steve was bundled up in. He had no intention of taking it back, either.

 

“Ready, Buck?” Steve smiled warmly up at him when Bucky rejoined him.

 

“Aces.” Bucky smiled slowly – and Steve finally noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “But ya mind if I have a snipe first?” He held up the pack of Lucky Strikes in his right hand. “I’m _dying_ here, pal.”

 

Steve had to laugh, chuckling softly as he shook his head. “Course not – but wait till we get outside so I don’t start hackin’ up a lung.”

 

Bucky flashed him a grin, his eyes lighting up. “Of course, pal. Wouldn’t dream of havin’ it any other way.” A beat passed, and Bucky held out his free left hand. “Gimme your bag.”

 

Steve’s brows furrowed together in confusion as he looked back at Bucky. “What? Why?”

 

“’cause ya look like a strong breeze could knock ya over, and I know your kit is heavy.” Bucky made a beckoning motion with his hand. “Give it.”

 

“Buck –“

 

“Give. It.”

 

Sighting, Steve pulled the leather messenger bag off over his head, and held it out for Bucky, complete with the rolled newsprint pad that he’d been drawing on all morning. Bucky took it from him easily, and slung it over his shoulder. “Mmkay, let’s get gone.” He nodded towards the main door of the life drawing studio.

 

Steve had to jog to catch up to Bucky, who’d taken off with a couple of long strides. But, he fell into an easy pace at Bucky’s side as they walked through the halls of the art school. As they reached a back entrance, Bucky knocked a cigarette out of the pack, and put it between his lips, as he pushed the door open to the chill of the outside world. He shivered slightly, but ignored it as he walked out into the grey late morning with Steve at his side. Safely outside, without the worry of triggering Steve’s asthma with his bad habit, Bucky put the cigarette pack back into his pocket and pulled out the Ronson lighter. He shielded the end of his cigarette with his hand as he lit it, and took the first drag as he put the lighter away again. He held the smoke for just a moment, his eyes closed, before exhaling it with an almost sinful sigh of pleasure. Beside him, Steve shook his head in disbelieving fondness, even as a slight blush bloomed on the peaks of his cheeks. He _really_ wished Bucky wouldn’t make _that_ sound…

 

The Lucky Strike was down to a barely smouldering butt by the time they made it off of the campus’ property. Bucky flicked it away towards a storm drain so that he didn’t run the risk of burning down Steve’s college, and pulled his friend close as they walked. His elbow rested on Steve’s shoulder, as Steve’s arm went automatically around the back of Bucky’s waist. Steve could feel Bucky stumbling slightly, and tightened his grip appropriately to keep his childhood best friend upright as they made their way down the street towards the train station.

 

Finding their seats on the train, Bucky sank into the space beside Steve as he pulled his flat cap off and ruffled out his hair again. Within ten minutes of leaving the station, he was fast asleep, with his head resting on Steve’s soft wool covered left shoulder. Steve smiled to himself, and lifted his left hand to gently pressed Bucky closer against him, wanting to shield and shelter him the way Bucky always did for him. He knew his friend was exhausted, he’d been awake since five thirty Thursday morning. It was already eleven thirty on Friday morning. Steve pushed his fingers back through Bucky’s dark curls and gently scratched at his scalp in the way that he knew helped relax him. Right on cue, Bucky hummed contentedly in his sleep and settled in a little closer. He was going to be sore when he awoke, from the uncomfortable position he’d twisted himself into to sleep with his head on Steve’s shoulder, but he must have felt it was worth it. The train ride was an hour long; Steve let Bucky sleep the entire time, knowing the poor man had run himself ragged.

 

He still didn’t understand why Bucky was the model that morning, or how long it had been planned – or _why_ he’d let himself be roped into graveyard shift the night before if he _knew_ he was going to need to be in Manhattan in the morning. But all of those questions could wait for later – for after Bucky crawled into their shared bed and slept the rest of the day away.

 

Steve rest his cheek against Bucky’s crown as he sat contentedly on the train back to Red Hook.

**Author's Note:**

> So, truthfully speaking, it's rather unlikely that there would have been women in the same class as Steve. Especially during life drawing sessions, since this is the 1930s. But, you're also supposed to write what you know, and my illustration (because that is what I'm going to uni for) classes are completely co-ed. It also made for a better story, and the idea has been stuck in my head since I bought a book on my favourite illustrator of all time, J.C. Leyendecker, and read that women were known to love his advertising illustrations because of the look of the men, and were known to describe attractive men as having "the Leyendecker look". 
> 
> Also lets be real... 1930s and 1940s Bucky very much has the Leyendecker look... he has a quality about him that looks like he could have been pulled from one of the illustrations and brought to life...
> 
> That being said the funniest thing happened to me at the end of last week, and I'm still laughing at it. See, this fic has been saved in my drafts for two weeks as I write pieces of it in between my massive amount of Illustration homework. The current huge assignment that I'm working through involves drawing portraits of three self-chosen celebrities - so naturally I threw Sebastian Stan. My teacher, during my public critique, suddenly half-shouted about my drawings of Seb/Seb in general "HE IS SUCH A CUTE BOY!!!!!!" He caught me off guard, and it made me laugh.


End file.
